


take me somewhere, take me anywhere, take me with you

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [7]
Category: Skins (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s all so inconsequential – the ways you’ve let each other down. The ways your hearts have been battered and bruised.  It’s always been pointless anyway, your worries of how and when and how badly things will fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me somewhere, take me anywhere, take me with you

 

_Five hundred words on paper to tell you that I’m here_  
_I’m never going nowhere, until I hear you say: I’m yours_  
_But your heart is armed_

* * *

You spend Christmas day in Effy’s flat getting pissed and eating takeaway pizza until Tony turns up and forces you both into a game of Monopoly. Which he of course wins effortlessly since you and Effy can’t manage your funds to save your lives, let alone acquire any property. In the end, Tony feeds you pudding, makes you tea, and puts you both to bed.

It’s not at all the worst Christmas you’ve had.

You leave Effy the following morning, slipping from beneath all her plush blankets to dress in the greying light of predawn. While hugging her goodbye, she mumbles into your shoulder something about meeting you in Barcelona, before falling back against her pillow. It doesn’t register until later on the plane, what she’d said before you left. So you flip through a tentative schedule of projects you’ve been compiling, finding Barcelona just after Milan and before Berlin. And you then marvel, yet again, at Effy’s sharp recall despite consuming her weight in alcohol.

Richard signs off on your proposal to transfer departments without reluctance, and two weeks after returning to New York some kind of plan’s been set in motion.

While packing up your luggage for a flight, set to leave the following morning, a jolt of nerves splits your stomach in half. You’re fine with the travel – excited to return to it, in fact – but it’s the uncertainty that lies at the end of it, at the end of whatever this is, that’s making your palms sweat as you squeeze them into fists. Your phone goes then, as you’re sat on the edge of the bed, staring at a half-packed bag and a stack of folded tops.

 _Un-fucking-canny_ , you think with a smile, that Emily still pops up in this way.

Whether she’s barely sixteen and wielding college forms for student elections, or some years older, wishing you a safe flight. She’s still just as likely to come about when your nerves are at a breaking point, ready to calm you down with some mild distraction.

You smile down at the screen of your mobile, thumbing your reply with far less smiley emoticons than Emily tends to favour. And her reply comes seconds later, a picture text of her with Lewis sat on her lap, both smiling broadly and his tiny hand held up in a wave by Emily’s thumb and forefinger.

 _Say hi to San Francisco for us_ , it says.

It jogs something in your memory so that you’re up and moving into the sitting room, pulling an old, worn sketchbook from its place on the bookshelves. You sit on the sofa, another bag partially packed laid beside you, and flip through the old pages. The list at the back makes you smile again, the fact that you’ve shared even one of these _‘Places to take Emily’_ with her, warming your cheeks as your fingers scan down the page. The old sketchbook goes into the bag without another thought, along with a portfolio for the artist with which you’ll be working, your iPad, and several packs of chocolate biscuits. Emily’s Christmas gift had been waiting, as promised, when you’d first returned home. A small box packed full of English treats and an old paperback – no doubt Emily’s own copy – with a note that read: _one of my favourites_.

 

**

Your stay on the west coast isn’t long enough to receive any letters from Emily, but there are two in your post box upon your return to Brooklyn.

The first includes detailed descriptions of her students from a class for the new term. All thirty-five of them. And it would be painfully boring material if the writing didn’t read _exactly_ the way Emily speaks – the sound of her voice almost ringing in your ears as you read through it.

The second isn’t a letter at all but a few pages straight from her dissertation – an extremely early, rough draft of which she feels particularly unimpressed and has begged for your input. A kind of anxious rush fills up your chest as you stare down at both pieces of post on your kitchen table.

And you think, _this might actually be working._

Because you’d not really anticipated transitioning so seamlessly – from not having Emily at all to having her in these measured fragments, as you felt could be manageable. You’d not even really expected Emily to go along with it at all, if you’re being honest. This idea of taking [more] time apart, and slowing down, and stepping back to be sure everything that _feels_ so right, is in fact, not a massive, fucking delusion that will end in tragedy.

And you’re not in the habit of predicting the future, but twice surviving the demise of you and Emily? You wouldn’t survive it – another ending. Of that you feel quite certain.

**

Effy comes to Barcelona for a long weekend. She instantly charms the interns who have travelled with you – both Jacob _and_ Sarah – then takes you all dancing after a lengthy dinner of wine and tapas. Back at the rental, she makes you smoke spliff until you’re all completely monged, laughing at nothing for hours.

The museum hosting the exhibit has a small gift shop, and the following morning you pick up two postcards, showcasing artwork you think Emily might enjoy. Effy watches you make the purchase wordlessly, then looks away as you slip the postcards into your bag. Three days pass, and Effy doesn’t ask about or comment on your arrangement with Emily, but she then brings it up – with zero pretence – when you’re hardly prepared to answer.

“So, you’ve shagged her. And now you’re, what – courting her?”

You’ve walked down to the waterfront and have come to sit on shallow stone steps where small children jump from step to step beside you, while Effy smokes lazily, her eyes hidden behind large, dark sunglasses.

“Fuck’s sake,” you nearly stutter. “I’m not _courting_ her.”

“Katie seems to think you’re following some kind of antiquated ritual – writing love letters or something – and that to _me_ sounds a lot like courting. You’re certainly not fucking. And, I mean, I’ve seen the postcards, Naomi.”

“Katie? Since when are you discussing _anything_ with Katie? Namely, my personal life.”

Effy reaches up to brush hair from her face, a light breeze blowing it back into place a moment later. “I took her for coffee before she left London.”

You almost can’t concentrate on the conversation at hand – the image of Katie and Effy enjoying each other’s company too humorous to shake for long seconds.

“Well, might I suggest you consider some alternate topics of conversation? The last time you two put your heads together, I ended up shanghaied in my own flat, didn’t I?”

Effy’s answering smirk is barely that. “Fairly certain you ended up fucking around the clock in your own flat.”

“That’s not the point, Eff.”

The smoke she exhales drifts up and over your heads. You turn to see the children still jumping ceaselessly, chattering in a language mostly foreign to you, and laughing like they’ve just found the best game ever.

“You’re not going to tell me then?” Effy says.

You look back to her and shrug, “Tell you what? What is it that you want to know exactly?”

“Why it is you’re receiving handwritten letters and responding with postcards when you could be having face-to-face conversations? Why it is you’ve not yet come back to London for the girl you’ve, in one way or another, built your entire life around?” You turn away from her momentarily, Effy’s glare too intense even behind her dark glasses. “Emily – she’s what you want, Naomi.” She waves an arm out to the space in front of you – towards the sparkling water and gorgeous architecture. “Not this.”

You stretch your legs along the steps and lean back against your hands, the stone warm against your palms from baking in the afternoon sun.

“Yeah, well,” you sigh, “she’s always been what I’ve wanted. But there was a time when I wasn’t what _she_ wanted, Eff.”

Effy leans back too, mirroring your position, her fingers loosely covering your own. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t feel like it sometimes,” you sigh, turning to look at her.

Effy waits a beat then rests her chin on her shoulder, barely concealing the hint of a smirk. “It was _so_ long ago, in fact, that a girl I once hospitalised dislikes me now only out of stubbornness and no longer out of seething hatred for fucking her college boyfriend.”  

You pinch your lips together, mutually fighting grins before bursting into laughter that rivals that of the squealing children.

“Thanks for that perspective. It’s well comforting,” you finally manage, looking out over the water.

Effy rests her head onto your shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”

**

For the next two months you see very little of your flat and have adjusted again to life in hotels and tiny cottage rentals. Emily’s letters continue to pour in regularly until the third month when, despite being stationed in Berlin for a lengthy exhibit, the correspondence is staggered at best, and Emily’s voice over the phone sounds despondent.  

Cautiously, you ask her one night, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine.”

You almost laugh that she’s even attempted some false reassurance because her tone is saturated in despair. But you then remember that to make light of her sullen mood would likely backfire.

So you attempt a clever distraction. “Turns out your sister’s doing some work in Magdeburg and is considering taking a train up here for the day. Bet you never thought you’d see the day – me and Katiekins playing nice all on our own.”

“Yeah, that’s fucking great,” she scoffs, and your stomach drops.

“Emily—“

“No, I’m sorry,” her tone changes instantly as you sit on the corner of your bed. “I swore I wouldn’t – _fuck_ , I’m really trying not to be this way.”

“You could always just tell me what’s wrong, you know.”

The techno club four floors down starts another track, which pumps loudly into your room, and you move to shutter all the windows before lying back on the bed.

Emily’s voice is much quieter, almost timid. “I don’t want you to think I’ve stopped supporting your decision, or anything.”

Your breathing slows, though you hope not noticeably. “But?”

“But, I fucking miss you. And now even my sister, who _loathed_ you for nearly half the time that I was falling in love with you, gets to see you and I just—“ she sighs loudly. You imagine her slumped into that chair she keeps near the windows of her sitting room. “I just really miss you.”

“Em, this isn’t easy for me either, okay? I miss you too. A lot. But—“

“I know,” she says, dejection hitting you hard through the mobile speaker. “It’s for the best.”

Even still, you stop to question it. You’ve made the decision, and Emily’s gone along with all of it. You can only hope it’s been the right one that you’ve made.

“I spoke with Rose earlier when she came to take Lewis, and I think she’s just soiled my mood, honestly.”

It’s not what you expect to hear, and so suddenly you’re sat upright, nervously pulling at loose strings on your cardigan.

“Oh.” Clearing your throat, you attempt to ask casually, “Everything alright there, then?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

It doesn’t sound fine. It sounds the exact opposite of _fine_ , and your shoulders tense instinctively even as you manage to say, “Okay.”

“She just often regards me as if, I don’t know, like nothing’s happened. Like I’m still, or that she and I could ever be – whatever. It’s just put me in a mood, I guess.”

You’re about six seconds away from either booking a flight back to London or asking Emily what the fuck that even means – your mind playing terribly vivid scenarios of their interactions – but Emily’s voice, thankfully, stops you from doing either.

“Seeing her, this person with whom I’m forced to interact but would rather not _ever_ see – it just makes it more difficult, knowing I can’t see you when I want to so badly.”

“Sure,” you croak, and then swallow hard. “Well, I’m sorry – that things have been shit.”

“They haven’t honestly,” Emily sighs. “I really am fine. I’m just—“ she laughs a bit, and you can’t help but feel warmed by its sound “—well, I’m not terribly patient in waiting for what I want.”

Emily sounds a bit more like herself now, causing your panic to subside rapidly. So you lie back against the mountain of pillows on your bed and twist a strand of hair between your fingers.

“ _Impatient,_ really? Now see, this is why we need this time apart – there’s so much to discover about one another. And this is certainly something I hadn’t known about you, Emily Fitch.”

Her _‘fuck off’_ only comes through on the tails of her laughter, and it feels like maybe an insult you could get used to hearing.

**

You meet Katie at the train station then walk to a nearby outdoor café for lunch.

A glass of wine into the meal, and Katie launches into it. And she never was particularly delicate. “What the fuck are you doing in Berlin then?”

“Uh, working?”

Katie rolls her eyes and places her wine glass back on the table. “If you’re going to make me spell it out for you – what the fuck are you doing in Berlin and _not_ with Emily?”

“Christ, Katie.” You lean back into your chair, folding your arms. “Remember when you thought I was no good for her? Can’t we resume that dynamic?”

“Please,” Katie laughs, “that’s the last thing you’d want from me.”

You swirl the wine in your glass a few times before finishing it off. “I don’t know, seems preferable to whatever inquisition I’m clearly about to endure.”

“You love her.”

Your eyes avert her gaze almost of their own accord. “Is that a question?”

“Of course it’s not a fucking question.” She laughs again, finishing her own glass of wine. “Sorry, babes, but you’re about as transparent as a window with your feelings on my sister,” she smirks, and you can’t even believe you thought spending time alone with Katie fucking Fitch would be a grand idea.

Worse still, you’re in no position to argue her point, and reply lamely, “Brilliant.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, it’s pretty apparent you’re both going to lead rather pathetic lives if you’re not, like, together. So I don’t see what you’re waiting for – just go be with her already.”

“What’s _apparent_ ,” you say with some pointed eye contact, “is that you’ve been spending far too much time with Effy.”

“ _Whatever_.”

Katie motions for more drinks from a passing waiter, rolling her eyes in your direction.

She’s supervising orphanages worldwide, Katie is, and she’s this selfless humanitarian who resembles literally _nothing_ of the girl with showy tits and garish fashion that flounced into Roundview on your first day of sixth form. Even still, it takes only one, off-handed comment to make you wonder if she’s really changed at all.

“I’m right and you know it. You can’t possibly be happy without each other.”

The mood’s pretty jovial – in that Katie’s having a laugh at your expense, and you’re mostly playing along – until something strikes you, and your mouth is moving before you can stop it.

“Emily was though.” You look back to find Katie’s expression caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “She found Rose. And she was happy. She was _in love_.”

Katie starts to nod, then pauses and tilts her head just so. “Is that it then? Is that what’s keeping you from being with her?”

“Rose gave her what I couldn’t,” you shrug. “She gave her this whole, fucking existence. One that Emily wanted more than—“

“More than you.” Katie’s voice is soft, and you wish that the idea of her being so compassionate didn’t make you want to cry. But the surge of emotion is sort of unavoidable, so you nod quietly, looking to your lap, and pray that more wine is on its way. “You’ve always been kind of thick, you know, when it comes to my sister.”

“I thought we were being nice to each other these days, Katiekins.” Your voice is still a bit unstable, but you’ve managed to say it with a familiar smirk in her direction.

She smiles more kindly now, and if it isn’t the worst kind of torture to be missing Emily _terribly_ and also sat across from someone who mirrors her so closely.

“Emily has always had this notion of family that’s oddly traditional considering her, well, inclinations,” Katie says. “And she’s fucking stubborn to boot. So try telling her that things won’t always stack up the way she’s planned, and she’s not likely to take it well, is she?”

“Yeah, I was there, Katie. Try as I might to forget, I do recall Manchester. What’s your point?”

“My _point_ , you oblivious twat, is that Emily got it all wrong.”

You pause to scowl at her, an anxious confusion starting to swirl in your chest.

“She held onto the wrong parts of the life she wanted, didn’t she?” Katie smiles at the waiter as he sets two more glasses of wine onto your table, before returning her gaze to you. “And she knows it, okay? Regardless of what you think you know, or the parts of that life she’s chosen to tell you. Emily’s _always_ known it.”

**

For Emily’s birthday, you send flowers and a box of her favourite sweets.

For your birthday, a few months after, Emily sends naughty picture texts of herself because she’s always been just a bit filthier than she lets on. And while you’d prefer to think you’re above such crude innuendo, you can’t stop yourself from wholly appreciating the gesture when your hand’s found its way into your knickers on some lonely night in Milan.

The nights aren’t always lonely. Or, at least, not _as_ lonely when you’ve got Emily’s low, sultry voice scratching through your mobile. You’ve spent your whole life considering phone sex to be lowbrow, nothing more than fodder for pornographic films. But then, you’ve never gone so long without being touched, or kissed, or coaxed to orgasm, and especially not while still maintaining contact with the likes of Emily Fitch.

So it’s actually a fairly easy routine to take up, hiding under the covers of your bed with Emily’s voice pressed to your ear – having all sorts of orgasms for her, with her, or as a result of hearing her own. A few months on, it’s almost started to feel normal, connecting to her in this way.

But then, Emily has never been one to play fair.

You’re milling the venue, biding your time before a scheduled meeting with the artist, when Emily’s name pops up on your mobile, and you answer with a smile. "Hey, you."

“What’re you up to?” she asks.

“Working. I’ve a meeting in about twenty minutes.”

“How is everything looking? Were you able to work out the lighting issue?”

You sigh, stood in front of a large piece of the artist’s work, which has been suspended on invisible cables. “More or less.”

You might have stopped there, because it’s not as if Emily’s ever going to see the installation, nor has she ever shown a particular interest in modern art of this style. And you’re well aware that she enjoys hearing about your work, though you’ve made note to keep more of the intricate, technical details scarce. Until this moment, when your neck is craned as you examine the piece, and your mind’s distracted from the fact that Emily couldn’t likely give a shit, as you just blather on, uninterrupted.

Her quick puff of breath is what registers first.

And so you pause, placing a cool hand at the back of your neck and ask, “Are you alright?”

“Mm-hmm.” It’s hardly an answer, and your pulse is racing almost immediately.

“Where are you right now?”

There’s another generous pause before she says, “Home. Bed.”

Your head whips around so quickly, you might have well pulled a neck muscle if you weren’t completely distracted by the now incredibly familiar sounds coming through your mobile.

“Emily, _Jesus_ – I’m in fucking public, you seriously cannot—“

Another puff of air, and then just breathing. Nothing more than Emily’s laboured breaths coming in quick succession. Your entire body spins then, away from the work of art, away from the wide open space, in a frantic search of somewhere, _anywhere_ , less conspicuous.

Just as you’ve tried a third door, the first two locked rooms, and pushed into the dim lighting of a broom closet, Emily croaks out a cheeky, “Care to join me?”

“Fuck’s sake, Ems, I’m crouched in a dodgy storage closet or something _on site_. I can’t just—“

“Fuck, Naomi, you’re _very_ hot when you’re irritable.”

Your eyes clench tightly, in tandem to your thighs which try futilely to ward off any further, painful pulsing, while Emily’s orgasm builds with louder breathing and soft moans. It’s really, _really_ fucking cruel, and you’d be terribly upset with her if you could stop yourself from being so aroused. When she finishes, it’s so loud and exaggerated, you know for a fact she’s done it for your benefit, and you can’t help but press the mobile more firmly against your ear.

"Christ."

"Sorry," Emily breaths out. "I really missed you today."

You can’t even imagine how flushed your cheeks have grown, how the hair around your brow must be damp with sweat. You can’t imagine how you’re meant to remain professional with a fucking client in just under ten minutes, what with visions of Emily touching herself flashing through your mind.

And so it’s only fair to chastise her for this completely irresponsible, salacious act. “You’re going to fucking pay for this,” is what you say to her, in a tone that strains to remain calm.

But Emily’s answering laugh is open and reckless, her response only aggravating the throbs between your legs.

“Looking forward to it.”

**

In Chicago, you take note to bring Emily to Navy Pier, sit on the lawns for an outdoor show at Millennium Park.

In Florence, you imagine her in the Strozzina, enamoured by the installations of modern art.

Vienna speaks for itself, but a particular spot in the city centre makes its way onto your list by way of their chocolate mousse that could only be appreciated properly by Emily.

You spend only a short amount of time in Washington, DC, but find a leisurely day to walk about the Reflecting Pool and end up sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. When you pull the sketchbook from your bag and flip to the appropriate page, your hand pauses, pen hovering above the page. You squint into the midday sun while biting your lip before looking back to the book in your lap. And then, just before adding the Lincoln Memorial to the list, you consider the title at the top of the page and append it to read _‘Places to take Emily and Lewis.’_

**

Back in your flat, for the first time in weeks, you lay sprawled on your bed, legs dangling over its edge and arms flopped back over your head. You've been laid there for ages, an hour at least, maybe more. The stillness, the quiet, the time alone with your thoughts, is all part of some ancient, personal ritual. A habit formed so long ago, it's as much a part of you as the sound of your voice or your compulsion towards knee-jerk sarcasm. Sometimes, you're inclined towards music during these bouts of reflection – some kind of distant soundtrack to your thoughts – but more often than not, it's only this. It's only you, and your bed, and your free-falling thoughts.

You remember a Saturday – months after uprooting your newly established London life – in the tiny, Manchester flat that Katie begrudgingly allowed you to share with her and Emily. You sometimes can't remember the shape of your dad's face, and there are entire years of your life on random communes with your mum that have blurred and all but vanished. You've since forgotten loads from college – the absolute recklessness of your days and nights, the absurd intricacies of that motley crew who you would start to call your best mates – and it's probably a blessing, that. So you can't quite figure then, why it is that some rainy Saturday in Manchester, entirely insignificant in that nothing even remarkable happened that day, can be recollected with sharpened ease.

Katie had gone home to Bristol, still choosing at that point to spend as little time around the two of you as possible, and you and Emily had been trapped indoors for two straight days. The rain, unrelenting. The heavy, soggy chill in the air, uninviting. She was determined to study; you were determined to undermine her efforts and keep her attentions all for yourself.

You close your eyes, wanting to recall every, single detail of that nothing, little Saturday.

**

“ _Naomi_ – fucking stop it.” On the third attempt of your wriggling toes into her side, she doesn’t even bother looking at you. Can’t even be arsed to glower at you over the textbook in her lap, held instead at an angle to block you from her view.

“My feet are cold,” you say in some tiny, weak voice that you hope will ignite, at the very least, a look of sympathy from her; and, at best, inspire the caress of her warm hands on your cold toes.

Instead, Emily tells you, without an ounce of sympathy, “Put on socks then, for fuck’s sake.”

You huff dramatically, craning your neck so you can see the window behind your head, inverted from this angle so the raindrops run up the pane instead of down. It’s still pissing down to beat the band, and as time passes, the walls of the flat have gradually begun to close in on you.

You wouldn’t mind it, really, being holed up for the weekend with your girlfriend. There was a time, in fact, when you’d not bothered to leave your bedroom for days at a time, rain or shine. And last night – dancing to old Billy Holiday records and making your first, serious attempts at acquiring a taste for whiskey before shagging Emily right there on the sofa – was meant to be a precursor to your Saturday. Which you imagined would involve sleeping late, staying wrapped up in the dishevelled bedclothes until midday when you’d barter sexual favours to get the other to make coffee. You’d spend the afternoon lazily watching telly with Emily curled into your chest, clothing optional. But then Emily woke with a determination for productivity that threw a wrench in your otherwise brilliant plan. And you’ve thus spent the first part of the day either sulking or finding ways to annoy her in childish retaliation.

“How much longer do you plan on ignoring me?”

Emily sighs, very loudly, as she tilts back her head. Though, there’s laughter at the end of it, and the book drops flat to her lap so you can now see the full brunt of her exasperation. “I’m _reading_.”

“Yes, but, Katie’s not even _here_ – shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, taking advantage of the empty flat?”

“I’m fairly certain we did a good bit of that last night.” Emily’s smirking, even though you’re still scowling, and then arches an eyebrow to really drive the point home. “Precisely where you’re laying now, if memory serves me.”

It’s true. You’d pushed her back into the cushions after tripping over your own feet, narrowly missing the corner of the coffee table, and landed in a graceless tangle. Emily had been taken by surprise for only a moment before tugging urgently at the button of your jeans and allowing you to push up the hem of her tee shirt.

It would be a more pleasant recall if you were currently in the same position. If Emily were laid beneath you with heavy breaths and flushed cheeks. It’d be brilliant foreplay, actually, recounting the events of last night just before starting again in the dreary, afternoon light that’s shading the room currently.

Except that’s not the way this is going, apparent by the length of couch between you and that _cunting_ textbook to which Emily’s clutching.

It’s not fair then, that your body still responds to the memory of it, betraying your sullen mood with a persistent throbbing between your legs that only intensifies when Emily places a hand – warm, as you knew it would be – on your shin and smiles.

“Just let me finish this chapter, alright? Then I’m all yours.”

It shouldn’t even be humanly possible, the things Emily does with her voice. Half the time sounding like she’s a breath away from losing it altogether, the way it scratches out when she says ‘ _yours_.’ And it really, _really_ shouldn’t have the effect on you that it does – not now after hearing it, being surrounded by it, for so long. Except, it does. And your own voice offers nothing by way of seduction, only pitches several octaves higher than it should when you’re about to cry. So you’re now not only feeling exceptionally turned on but inadequate to boot.

You get up then, pulling the baggy cardigan you can’t seem to let go [no matter the way it’s tattered into holes on your elbows] more tightly around your middle, and tell her you’re making tea. As you stand beside her, Emily looks up, regarding you so fondly, the feeling of your chest expanding painfully is the only thing to distract from the ache low in your gut. So you lean down, kiss the top of her head where that bright red hair is dimming a bit every day, and tell her, “Read faster, yeah?”

“I could, you know,” she says, over the back of the sofa, her voice following you into the kitchenette, “if I weren’t being constantly assaulted by those blocks of ice you call feet.”

You turn towards her, two mugs hooked onto a finger, and wave the other hand in the air. “Well, go on then – get to it!”  

Emily finds you, halfway through your cup of tea, where you’ve moved to the bedroom to tidy because – love her as you do – your standards of cleanliness have always significantly varied from that of Emily’s.

And she’s let you take over half of her extremely limited space, so you feel inclined to keep things neat and organised as best you can. Even if Emily never learns to put her tee shirts in the bloody hamper instead of leaving them on the floor. You’re shaking one out – her black, ‘Stairway to Heaven’ tee that’s faded nearly grey, the graphic on the front broken and chipped apart – determined to release at least some of the wrinkles.

Emily doesn’t  even like Led Zeppelin, though it didn’t stop her from turning up to college one day wearing the tee-shirt – a second-hand purchase from a shopping trip with Katie – as a ploy to get your attention, the crafty minx. It was a bit of cat-and-mouse back then – Emily’s subtle manipulations constantly challenging your ability to resist them – but she lured you effortlessly that day, straight out of the canteen and into the toilets near the science block for a heated, midday snog.

She stops before entering the bedroom, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe when you look over at her.

“All finished then?”

Emily just shakes her head, her loose strands of hair swishing back and forth across her shoulders. So you finish the fold, adding the tee shirt to the stacks you’ve gathered on the bed. The entire room actually looks more liveable and less like a bomb hit it; and, fleetingly, you almost wish Katie were here to see it.

“Can’t concentrate,” Emily says, slowly making her way into the room. “Too quiet out there.”

You turn to face her, hands on your hips, because you can’t even _wait_ to hear this explanation. “So, you can’t get any work done with me in the same room, and now you can’t concentrate when I’ve fucked off to give you some peace and quiet?”

She’s stood right in front of you now, her mouth curling up at the corners even though she pinches her lips together, and nods bashfully.

You shake your head at her, rolling your eyes affectionately, and say, “What am I to do with you?”

Emily takes your hands from your hips, places them on her own before leaning up to where her mouth just barely reaches your ear and whispers, “Whatever you like.”

It’s the only invitation you’ll ever need.

Your tea’s gone cold by the time you’ve finished. And between leg spasms during orgasm and general shifting and rolling, the laundry you’d so carefully folded is back on the floor. But, Emily is naked beside you, her breaths coming in contact with your neck in these short, little puffs of warm air. And she has always felt the most lovely like this. Your eyes close and reopen, slowly and repetitively, with every brush of Emily’s fingers along your arm.

“I love you,” you say, and then lean back so you can look at the way it registers in her eyes. You no longer revel in just saying it, you much prefer to watch Emily’s face as the words light across it.

“Yeah?” she says, kind of dreamily.

Some earlier version of yourself would loathe to think of someone looking at you in this way – let alone to call it _dreamily_ – but that person is as good as gone. Emily banished her when she grabbed hold of your heart, refusing against all odds to give it back. So you just nod, biting at your lower lip before Emily leans in to kiss it, a soft, lingering kind of kiss that makes what she says next practically superfluous.

“I love you too.”

In an hour, you’ll be starving, and Emily will raid the fridge and cupboards, preparing for you some meal out of bits and pieces that you’d never, on your own, be able to create. You’ll sit on the mismatched chairs at the kitchen table in nothing but tee shirts and underwear. You’ll laugh at how the sight of you sat there would first horrify then infuriate Katie. And then you’ll tell Emily that compared to your inadequacies in the kitchen, she’s practically a candidate for the James Beard. You don’t worry, though, of your culinary shortcomings. Because you’ll never have to fend for yourself. Because Emily will be there – to forage the kitchens of all your future flats – and will feed you when too much afternoon sex has turned you ravenous.

 _This is it_ , you think. This is the rest of your life, wrapped up in one, entirely insignificant, rainy afternoon.

**

Except it’s not, at all. You’ve gotten something horribly wrong along the way, and ended up here – in a flat that you don’t share with Emily, in a city that feels lifetimes away from her. You bite at the skin inside your lip, but it doesn’t stop hot tears from brimming, spilling from the corners of your eyes, and rolling down your temples. Her letters are strewn along the bed, and your hands graze them as you reach to touch your face, feeling more tears threatening to erupt. Before long, the sobs are louder, uncontrolled and embarrassing. You curl into the duvet and pillow, muffling the sound of yourself breaking apart.  

You wake up confused and groggy, a testament to the amount of time you’ve spent away from your own bed. You blink several times from the lighting, although dim, that feels very bright for the late hour. And your eyes are clearly swollen, reddened and raw from so much crying. You find your phone beneath her letters and just hold it, in an open palm, for several minutes while your brain slowly wakens.

You've dialed Emily’s number before even doing the math and then realise, in a stroke of good fortune, that three in the morning for you is actually eight for her. So she answers, bright and chipper, if not somewhat surprised, and you feel a knot of emotion swell up again in your throat at the sound.

"Hi!"

You swallow, painfully working back the urge to cry, but your response is hardly more than a pitiful, croaking _'Hey.'_

"Hey, what's wrong?" Emily's tone shifts from happy surprise to alerted concern so quickly you have to bite down hard onto your top lip to keep from falling apart all over again.

You roll over onto your back and hear the distinct crinkling of paper beneath you. All these letters you've collected, all these bits of Emily you've gathered. And for what?

You wanted to make certain.

You wanted to gain some knowledge of the girl you lost.

You wanted to feel some sense of calm, some reassurance that old mistakes and massive life cock-ups weren't imminent.

But you were grasping at straws, really. Because nothing with Emily has ever been certain except Emily herself. You've never been sure of a single thing, really, apart from her. It's why being pushed away, losing that safe hold, felt like the worst kind of loss. Like walking on ice, losing your footing, and grasping at thin air for something to break your fall.

You think about telling her that _everything’s_ gone wrong. That this isn’t how you were meant to be – sad and lonely, your voices stretching across the ocean that separates you. You think she should know what you knew ten years ago. Some gradual realisation you’d no doubt been discovering, bit by bit, since meeting Emily Fitch – small, quiet, and impossibly shy – in secondary school, only to reveal itself fully on an afternoon in Manchester.

You figured out love first; but it was knowing you couldn’t ever really be without her that weighed so much heavier.

Emily shattered that ideal, and you’ve never been able to forgive her for that. Not entirely. But then, Emily had her own ideal shattered, too. Not once, with you, but again with Rose. And so, you think, maybe both of your expectations were faulty. Ill-advised, perhaps, to place all your eggs in someone else’s basket.

“Naomi?” Emily’s concern is thicker, though her voice is softer. You’ve gone quiet for too long now, and though worrying her has never been your intention, you still can’t find your voice. “What is it – can you tell me why you’re upset? Please?”

Emily always puts _‘love’_ at the close of her letters, just before signing her name. It doesn’t always say the word – spelled out in those four, bold letters that used to terrify you – but it’s always in the sentiment.

_I thought about your eyes today, and it made me smile._

_I wish you were here._

_Effy looks bored without you._

_London misses you._

_England misses you._

_I miss you._

It’s all so inconsequential – the ways you’ve let each other down. The ways your hearts have been battered and bruised.  It’s always been pointless anyway, your worries of how and when and how badly things will fall apart.

Emily could break you apart a hundred times, send you away and then call you back. And you’d return to her just the same, every time.

You take a steadying breath, wishing that instead of clutching a useless mobile you could feel Emily’s hand in yours, thrust bravely through a catflap. It’s been ages since you felt this terrified of speaking the truth, and the memory of you both sat crying on either side of Emily’s old, front door resurfaces just as you tell her, “Ems, I want to come home.”


End file.
